


Symbols

by stargatefan_archivist



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Angst, Gen, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-06
Updated: 2008-01-06
Packaged: 2018-12-17 17:11:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11856036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stargatefan_archivist/pseuds/stargatefan_archivist
Summary: Jack O'Neill misses the little things about who he was





	Symbols

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Yuma, the archivist: this work was originally archived at [Stargatefan.com](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Stargatefan.com). To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [StargateFan Archive Collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/StargateFan_Archive_Collection).

Season: 9-10  
Episode: None  
Pairing: None  
Warning: Sad  
Disclaimer: Stargate is owned by all kinds of important folks that don't include me; I'm just borrowing the characters, and will return them; This story, however, is mine, and may not be posted without my consent.  
Author's Pledge: The real Jack O'Neill, always and only, presented with honest, accurate information so that the potential reader has the facts to make an informed decision on whether or not to read.  
Author's Note: Jack in Washington is an endlessly sad vision for me. Thanks to Cokie for the beta and, as always, to all those who feedback.  
\----------------------

"You will put on a dress of guilt and shoes with broken high ideals." Roger McGough

xx====================xx

I hate 'em.

I know, I know, I shouldn't. They're just things: inanimate, ordinary, necessary things. Of and by themselves, they're totally innocuous and innocent.

They're the symptom, not the disease.

But I hate 'em anyway.

x===x

They stand for everything I hate about the way things are right now.

Made for show.

Designed for looks.

Meant to impress.

Oh, sure, there's nothing actually *wrong* with them. They fit well. And while not particularly comfortable, they're not actually uncomfortable, either.

They do the job for which they are intended.

Part of the job I loathe.

A symbol of my incarceration.

Too bright, too shiny, too slick; made for the city, for indoors, for show.

Fake. Faux. False.

They're noisy, and they clatter as I walk across the floor, a sharp click-click that speaks of all the unnatural ills of civilization, of cold hard floors and closed in spaces.

Worse even than the choking collar of my dress shirt and the inanity of a tie, I hate these shoes.

x===x

I miss my boots.

Humble, honest, unassuming, made for walking and working.

My boots- comfortable, well-worn, broken in by my own two feet, by mile after mile of walking the sands of a hundred alien worlds. Bearing the evidence of the long distances they've carried me. Every nick and mark a battle scar, honestly won. Scuffed and battered by honest labor, oiled and brushed by my own hand. Sometimes soiled, sometimes dusty, sometimes bloody.

x===x

I'm not a sentimental man. I've kept few souvenirs of the odd life I've lived. Unlike Daniel's office, mine was never cluttered with artifacts. Unlike Carter's lab, I never hoarded any alien doohickies. Unlike Teal'c's quarters, I kept no mementoes of home, burned no candles in memory of vanished people or lost places.

I keep my old boots. They look out of place in my Washington apartment, but they're important to me as reminders, of who I was and where I've been.

Grounding me with their reminder of reality, of the work still done by those on the front lines. Giving real meaning to the catch phrase 'boots on the ground.'

Deluding myself with misplaced hope that I can go back to who I was.

x===x

Those boots were made for real life.

These shoes? They were made for vanity. Too stiff. Too loud. Too slick. Too shiny.

x===x

I hate where I am now.

I console myself with reminders that this assignment won't be for long.

Remembering that I've endured unspeakably worse places.

Knowing that I have to do what good I can, if I can, here in this Earthly place that's a hundred times more alien than most of the actual alien planets I've visited.

God strike me dead the first moment I get comfortable here, because then I'll have to despise myself.

I kick off my shoe and instead of setting it gently beside the door, in a sudden pique of anger, I fling it across the room. It hits the wall with a dull, thoroughly unsatisfying, thud.

With a shudder, I remember the last time I so abused a shoe, throwing it through Daniel's image in Baal's fortress.

And I remember Thor's "waiting for the footwear to fall" which makes me smile.

x===x

I wish it were so easy to throw away my current assignment, as it was to throw that shoe.

I want my boots back.

Soldier's footwear.

Symbols of my real life, the real me.

Everyday, ordinary, humble, worn and scarred and hard used, my boots are like me.

Unlike these slick and shiny shoes.

x==== The End ====x


End file.
